


Predicting the Future (A Long Way Home)

by teprometo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depression, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teprometo/pseuds/teprometo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Harry Potter dropped off his son at platform nine and three-quarters, he saw Draco Malfoy again. But more importantly, Draco saw him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predicting the Future (A Long Way Home)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [hd_canon_fest](http://hd-canon-fest.livejournal.com) and was originally posted [here](http://hd-canon-fest.livejournal.com/4628.html).
> 
> Based on the prompts:
> 
> “The consequences of our actions are always so complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a very difficult business indeed.”  
> \- Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
> 
> Words: tree - curse - ladder
> 
> I wrote most of this whilst listening to Coconut Records’ album “Davy” on repeat, particularly the song “I Am Young,” which has become my own personal theme song for this fic, and for Harry/Draco in general.

“So,” Ginny said from the passenger seat in the four-door saloon Harry was driving, her voice cutting through the silence that felt too heavy. Lily had gone home with Ron and Hermione after dropping off James and Albus at platform nine and three-quarters, and Harry still felt a bit queasy thinking of Albus under the too-big Sorting Hat, his small hands bunched into terrified fists.

Harry looked over at Ginny, who seemed to be fighting a smirk. “Yes?”

Ginny looked out the window, reaching her arm out to fiddle with the wing mirror. “Scorpius Malfoy looks just like his father, doesn’t he?” she said, settling both hands primly on her lap.

“Yeah,” Harry said, “I suppose he does. I didn’t get a terribly good look at him.”

“Mm,” Ginny hummed. “He looks about as much like his father as Albus looks like you. Perhaps Astoria and I should meet for tea and discuss the woes of surrogacy.”

“Perhaps you should.” Harry huffed, wanting to steer clear of where he felt this conversation going.

“Perhaps I will,” Ginny said, that telltale edge in her voice indicating that she certainly would not be letting go of this topic. “Perhaps I’ll invite you and Draco.”

Harry snorted and rolled down his window. The wind hitting his face reminded him of flying in the afternoon sun, and he rolled the window back up.

“He was looking at you, you know,” Ginny pressed on. “While you were waving Albus on. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

“And why were you so concerned with where Malfoy was looking?” Harry said. “You’d think with your youngest son going off to school for three months, you might want to focus on seeing him off.”

Ginny seemed completely unbothered by Harry’s insinuation, clearly secure in her affection for her children. He caught her glancing at him as she readjusted her hair, pushing it behind her shoulder.

“He seemed sad. Kind of … forlorn, you know?”

“Ginny,” Harry warned, but he knew becoming irritated with her only egged her on. He sat up straighter and decided to change the topic, softening his tone as he said, “Gin, I think you should take Lily for the school year.”

“I’ll be travelling,” Ginny said.

Harry responded with silence, turning on his right indicator to turn down Ginny’s street.

When the silence had stretched too thin, Ginny added, “Of course I want her, but I don’t think running about all over Europe is the most stable environment for her.”

“And staying with Molly all day and half the night is any better?” Harry said. “You know how much she worries when I’m not home on time. Your mum isn’t getting any younger, and if Ron came to pick up Hugo before I got there to get Lily, can you imagine the hysterics?”

“But that’s just it, Harry. Lily is really attached to you. I just don’t think it would work.”

“I’ve had all of them for two years,” Harry said, almost pleading. At Ginny’s sharp glance, he added, “And it’s been lovely, of course. But I think Lily could really do with some time with her mum. She is very attached to me, and she’s been so sheltered with her big brothers always around. I just think ….” Harry paused, trying to consider what Lily would want instead of what he would want were he in her position, and not quite able to do it. “If I were her, I think I’d love to spend my last year before school globetrotting with my famous Quidditch-playing mother.”

“You make it sound so glamorous, Harry.” Ginny scoffed. “And if it is as great as you’re suggesting, do you think it’s fair to the boys to take Lily around on tour while they’re stuck at school?”

“They’ll understand. Lily’s the youngest, and the girl, and they know how jealous she is that they both get to be at Hogwarts already. And beside that, neither of them seems to care at all for Quidditch. Maybe we’ll still have a Seeker in the family yet.”

Ginny laughed at that, and Harry parked the car. She looked over Harry's shoulder at the blue door leading into her flat.

“All right, you’ve convinced me, Mr Potter,” she said. “But you’ve got to be the one to make her excited. It’d break my heart if she pouted about missing her daddy the whole season.”

Harry sighed and nodded, feeling unbelievably relieved. “Thanks, Gin. I mean it. I think this is best for Lily, but I admit to being grateful for the alone time.”

“I understand, of course,” Ginny said. “We’ll get her all packed up on Friday?”

Harry merely nodded. He was looking out the front windshield at nothing in particular. Ginny ruffled his hair and kissed his temple as though he were just an oversized Albus. She pressed her forehead against his and whispered, “Love you forever,” just as she did to their children.

“Always,” Harry responded, reaching out to squeeze her hand briefly before she exited the car, her long hair shining with the light of the low September sun. He watched her run up the drive to the flat she shared with Carlos the iguana. She shot him one last wide grin before disappearing through the doorway.

Harry put the car in gear and tightened his fingers on the wheel, faced with solitude for the first time in many years. His sons were at Hogwarts, both still at the beginning of an adventure he was sure would be more suited to young boys than his own had been. His daughter was playing with her cousin at his best mates’ house, and she would soon be residing with his ex-wife, the woman he still shared so much with.

They had been divorced for just over two years now, and she was still a better woman than he had ever deserved—kind and strong and beautiful, and so very generous. She had taken care of him and had never asked anything of him but honesty. And when he’d given it to her, honesty, she had let him go—had encouraged him to go. Not a day went by that he didn’t wish he could just love her the way she deserved to be loved.

But he couldn’t, and she knew that, and so did their children, and wishes weren’t worth anything, and they hadn’t been for quite some time. Harry had been down this mental path before and did not fancy expelling any more energy than necessary on pedestrian regret. Taking a deep breath, he focussed on the sound of the wheels on the road.

Harry rather fancied driving a Muggle car, however impractical it may have been. It was similar to, but much less intense than, flying a broom. He felt both in control and at ease, which was something he did not experience in the rest of his life.

It was with a tentative reluctance that he returned the car to the Ministry of Magic’s car park, which from the outside looked like any old Muggle parking garage, albeit with an exorbitant fee that no sane Muggle would pay, especially with a much cheaper car park across the street. Still, the interior was equipped with several rows of spaces in the case of car snobs willing to pay thrice the amount for the assurance that his baby would not be dinged by other, lesser vehicles. In fact, the Ministry made enough in revenue from this sort of person to own stock in a Muggle aeroplane company.

When wizards returned their hire-cars (granted no Muggles were present), the vehicles, once exited, were shrunk and launched into the air, each assigned a small space suspended near the ceiling of the room. Naturally, this was concealed from the Muggle public.

Harry pulled into one of the spaces and turned off the ignition. He scoured the car, looking under seats and between cushions, not relying on his children to have actually left with all their belongings. Sure enough, he found two quills (one of them broken), a box of chocolate frogs, Albus’ Charms textbook, and a bunched-up slip of paper in James’ scrawl that merely read, “Slytherin!” Harry tucked the textbook under his arm and deposited the remainder of the items in his pocket, shutting the door behind him. Watching the car shrink and ascend toward the others, he noticed that most of the spaces above were full. He had apparently taken much longer to bring back his rental than the other families who had braved Muggle technology to get their children off to Kings Cross.

Harry unwittingly conjured what he deemed a hilarious image of Lucius Malfoy looking small and intimidated behind the steering wheel, waving his wand and barking orders at the rearview mirror, which he'd naturally assume must be the vehicle’s thought centre. Harry wondered idly how Draco had fared, if he had made his wife chauffeur him, but thinking fondly of Draco while at the same time considering his wife felt deeply unsettling to Harry, and he quickened his pace to the key-return kiosk.

“Thank you, Mr Potter,” the young, red-haired woman behind the counter said. “Any trouble or damages?”

“No, everything was fine,” Harry said, nodding a bit awkwardly and turning towards the Apparition booth, which was a few metres to the left of the kiosk. He got halfway there and hesitated, unsure whether he should go home or check in at the Ministry and make himself useful. Finding work infinitely more appealing than returning to his empty house, he turned around and made for the Floo instead, which was on the other side of the kiosk.

“Something I can help you with?” the bored witch asked, raising her head from some trashy romance novel whose cover seemed to feature Merlin in nothing but his skivvies and pointed hat. A centaur stood in the background, waving her long hair about and exposing her breasts rather indecently.

“Er, no. Just decided to take the Floo instead,” Harry said, trying not to look at the lewd book. She nodded, and he felt a bit stupid, but he supposed walking past her again was better than crawling on all fours trying not to be seen in his indecision. That mental image made him think of Lucius Malfoy operating a Muggle car again, and a small gasp of laughter escaped him. He decided not to look at the witch, who must surely soon check the car for signs of intoxicated driving.

Harry pulled out the small leather pouch Hagrid had given him for his seventeenth birthday and took a pinch of Floo powder. It had been years since he’d needed to hide anything, but he couldn’t bear to leave such an important object lying in a drawer somewhere. He removed his glasses and stepped into the simple brick fireplace, which must have seemed an odd addition to a parking garage for the casual Muggle viewer. “Ministry of Magic,” he enunciated into the tall green flames.

Harry stepped out into the Atrium, which was quieter than usual. Most parents of school-aged kids had taken the day off. In the five minutes it took Harry to get to the Auror department, he’d had five wizards and two witches rush past him with a brusque “Auror Potter” in greeting. A quiet day, indeed.

“Hello, Harry. Can I get you a coffee?” said Susan, the Hospitality Department Liaison.

“Cream and sugar,” Harry requested, and a coffee tray rose off the table behind her, following Harry to his desk. He busied himself arranging files about so the coffee tray could rest on the surface. It settled with a clank, and Harry gratefully put one lump of sugar in the bottom of his mug, pouring coffee from the decanter in behind it. He set the spoon to stirring and added cream until the mug’s contents were the colour of a perfectly roasted golden-brown marshmallow, though Harry had always been too impatient to bother with those. Just as Harry was taking his first anxiety-quenching sip, Kelly the owl dropped his daily mail on his desk, barely missing the coffee tray with newspapers and envelopes and one small package.

“You’re a bit late today, aren’t you?” Harry muttered, as it was already well past two in the afternoon. The owl ruffled her feathers in irritation and made to fly away. “Oh!” Harry shouted, jostling his mug enough to splatter coffee down his front. “Kelly, wait a minute.”

Harry set down his mug and reached under the folders he’d just been shoving around. Al’s Charms textbook lay at the bottom of a pile of new case files. He Transfigured a sheaf of parchment into wrapping for the book, shrunk it, and attached it to Kelly’s leg. “Take this to Albus Potter at Hogwarts,” he said, rummaging through the top drawer for a treat. Kelly found the treats without Harry’s assistance and helped herself to two before taking off for Scotland.

Harry leaned back in his chair and Scourgified the front of his robes. Looking over his shoulder as though something else might interrupt his intimate encounter with his coffee, Harry picked up his mug again. He drank two and a half cups before he finally felt calm enough to get started on his work, taking his time opening and sorting his mail into different degrees of junk before tossing all of it in the bin, save the newspapers and the curious package he had decided to wait to open.

In his years as a father, he had learned patience and earned a strange pleasure from exercising it. With all the things he couldn’t control in his life, it was oddly exhilarating to have one small thing he could rein in. He set the package on the corner of his desk and opened the first file. Request for a search warrant. He read papers and signed them, took notes, and made some Floo calls, glancing at the package every so often just to remind himself that it was still there waiting for him.

At half seven, Harry decided to head home. With any luck, he’d have time for a shower before picking Lily up from Ron and Hermione. He spelled the coffee tray to tidy itself and reached to put out the lamp on his desk, his eyes falling on the small brown package once more. “What the hell,” he said to himself, picking it up and tearing back the paper. He opened the box to see a miniature maple tree figurine resting inside, a tiny rope ladder hanging from one of its branches. “What on Earth?”

Harry checked the packaging to see if he’d missed anything that might shed some light on this bizarre gift, or prank, or whatever it was. Placing it next to his lamp, he decided it would just be a mystery. Watching the rope ladder swing in some charm-induced breeze, he put out the lamp and headed for the Floo, wishing Susan a good evening as he passed.

* * *

“Okay, check yours,” Malfoy said, shoving Harry’s teacup towards him and leaning back in his high-backed chair.

“This is ridiculous, you know,” Harry muttered, readjusting himself on the floor of Malfoy’s study. “According to this rubbish, I should’ve been dead at least ninety times by now.”

“What, once isn’t good enough for Harry Potter?” Malfoy said. “There’s bound to be some margin of error. You did die, didn’t you? And you’ll do it again, so I wouldn’t be so dismissive.”

Harry was irritated with Malfoy’s cavalier attitude towards death. Utter prat. He and his parents were fine, his friends were fine (except for Crabbe, of course, but Malfoy had gotten over that quickly enough), and he had no appreciation of loss.

“You’re just scared that your future is going to be worse than mine. Here,” Malfoy said, scraping the teacup across the table back toward himself. “Ah, yes. I see it now.” He flipped through the tea-leaf-reading guide, pretending to look thoughtful, tapping his chin with a long index finger. “Mm … mm-hmm …. Oh, my.”

Harry snatched at the teacup, but Malfoy picked it up and cradled it in his lap. “Give it up, Malfoy.”

“No, no. You have a right to know.” He sneered. “You will be as poor as the Weasleys. No, poorer! And all your hair will fall out when you’re twenty-five, and you’ll lose several teeth in a tragic Refrigerator Accident, which you won’t be able to grow back, and you’ll have seventeen children, all of them Squibs, and all of them with red hair and more freckles than stars in the sky!” Malfoy shook his head sombrely and handed the teacup back to Harry, who was still a mixture of offended by Malfoy’s bigotry and amused by his deliberate pronunciation of _refrigerator_ and his utter lack of understanding of how innocuous an appliance it was.

“Give me that,” Harry snapped, indicating the book drooping off of Malfoy’s lap. Malfoy merely lifted his hands, inviting Harry to take the book for himself.

Harry peered into his cup. There were two distinct clumps of leaves. He studied the first one and, after a hearty amount of squinting, decided it looked like a balloon animal. The second clump was obviously mashed potatoes. He looked in the index, but found neither shape.

“Urgh, I’m hopeless,” Harry said, setting the book down next to the teacup and stretching out on his back on the floor.

“There, there, Potter,” Malfoy said without a lick of sincerity. “We already knew that.”

“My figures aren’t even in the book.” Harry pouted.

“Well, of course they are. The squirrel is in the section on animals, and the nebula is in astronomical phenomena.” Malfoy spoke as though Harry had obviously just been dreadful at using the Table of Contents.

Harry leaned up far enough to get his fingertips on the book and then pulled it down to the floor with him.

_The squirrel is a most fortuitous figure. Its bushy tail represents heartiness and a lifetime of health. Its agility indicates a fervour for life, most likely in the context of a sexual relationship. Like the busy squirrel, you will take great pleasure in your work._

“Huh,” Harry grunted. This was the first time he’d had a positive prediction for his future. It seemed his curse of imminent death had finally lifted.

“What is it?” Malfoy perked up, yanking the book out of Harry’s hands. “Fortuitous figure … heartiness … health … sexual relationship … great pleasure …” Malfoy muttered. “Why, Potter, you old dog!”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t otherwise respond. Covering his face, he imagined what his future would look like.

* * *

He was drunk. Not the accidental, silly, effortless drunk of their youth. This was an intentional, precise kind of drunk. The kind that is planned as an excuse instead of retroactively used as one.

Draco Malfoy was drunk in Harry’s sitting room, and all Harry could think about was the fact that after all this time, Draco was still welcome in his Floo, and that this had been the first time in fifteen years he had tried to come in.

At first Harry had left the idiomatic door open hoping that Draco would change his mind and admit that “continuing the family line” was a true cock’s errand. But he hadn’t, and eventually Harry had just forgotten that Draco had unfettered access to what was, admittedly, his own ancestral home.

Harry stood in the fireplace staring at Draco, who was draped across the sofa swirling a tumbler of Firewhiskey with one hand, the other thrown over his head. He was wearing a set of black robes buttoned all the way up to his long, slender neck. He looked effortless, and Harry knew that that was a part of Draco’s carefully metered act.

“Potter,” Draco spat as though Harry had just broken into his stall in a public loo. His sneer was just as forceful and berating as always, but worse on the face of a man nearing forty, with a career and a wife and a son. It made Harry feel ashamed and transparent. It made him feel as though he’d failed in some all-important task. It made him feel utterly alone.

Kreacher cracked into the room with a tea tray and nearly spilled its contents all over Draco in his haste to take Harry’s travelling cloak.

“Thank you, Dobby,” Draco said, sitting up to take a teacup.

“Kreacher,” Harry snarled, meaning to correct Draco, and instead seeming to scold the house-elf.

Harry was already full enough of regret and anger and loss at seeing Draco stretched across the same sofa he’d once been fucked silly on, and thinking of Dobby only compacted his grief, balling it up into an unmovable stone in his gut. Poor, heroic Dobby. Stupid, arrogant, stubborn Draco. Fuck.

Kreacher was positively trembling with his desire to punish himself, perhaps compounded by the command Harry had given years ago to _not_ punish himself. Kreacher often needed to be escorted into his dark, smelly cupboard and encouraged to stay there until he felt better when he got like this, but Harry had more pressing issues to attend to.

“Kreacher,” Harry said in the calmest, most metered voice he could muster. “I’m not angry with you. I was just correcting Mister Malfoy. He called you Dobby; your name is Kreacher.”

Kreacher’s tennis-ball eyes somehow became even rounder. He puffed out his locket-clad chest and proclaimed, “Master Potter is too kind. Would Master like Kreacher to bring a hat and fresh peonies to Dobby’s grave?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Please do. And when you’re done, please help Molly clean up and prepare dinner. Ask Ron and Hermione to keep Lily for the night. And then leave me for the evening.” Harry tried to make the most complete list he could, then added, “Can you do that?”

Kreacher beamed. “Anything! Kreacher will do anything Master Potter asks.” And with that, he Disapparated with a loud crack.

“Want me all to yourself, then, do you, Potter?” Draco asked, his voice betraying none of his intoxication.

“What are you doing here?”

“A better question is why you’re still standing in the fireplace.”

Harry finally stepped out into the room, brushing soot out of his hair. He put his glasses on and became suddenly aware of how Draco had aged. He was still unbelievably pointy, and his receded hairline made his face look even more triangular. Harry abruptly remembered placing sloppy kisses all over Draco’s pointy chin and felt his face go hot. Even at thirty-seven, Draco was still handsome. His skin remained utterly perfect. It was as though Malfoys simply did not get wrinkles.

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” Draco encouraged, as though Harry were a nervous guest unsure if the furniture were purely decoration.

“This is my sodding house, Malfoy. I’ll stand if I please.”

“Very well,” Draco muttered, sipping at his tea and dribbling a bit of it down his cheek, which he wiped up with his sleeve.

Merlin, he must really be pissed.

“Why are you here?” Harry repeated, not actually expecting Draco to answer him, but he felt it was his turn to speak so he figured he’d try it anyway.

“Just thought I’d drop in for a visit. I was certain you could use a break from the loathsome company you keep.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I thought we’d made it past this fifteen years ago,” Harry said, instinctively moving to stand directly across from Draco, in case he tried to escape, though Harry wasn’t sure why that would be such a bad thing.

“Perhaps you did, Potter, but I certainly never forgot the smell of you after leaving that ramshackle mess of freckles and poverty.”

“If you’ve come here to insult my family, I’ll see to it that Kreacher throws you out on your arse. And this time, I’ll remember to key you out of the Floo.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Draco said, waving a hand vaguely in the air in front of him. “You can hardly call them family after a divorce. Honestly, I thought you knew how this worked.”

“Is that what this is about? You do know I’ve been divorced two years.”

“Yes, I know that. Merlin, do you think I could forget about that ridiculous letter you sent? I nearly wet myself laughing.”

Harry felt the burn of shame swelling in his chest. Yes, he had sent Draco a letter, and it had been a terrible idea. Because regardless of how much Harry had idealised Draco throughout his marriage, it had no bearing on Draco’s actual behaviour, or the fact that Draco was, in the end, unkind and utterly lacking in decency.

“I saw that you have a red-haired child,” Draco said in a surprisingly even voice. Harry supposed this was for the best, because while he had learned self-restraint as an adult, he doubted his ability to keep from throttling Draco if he insulted any of Harry’s children.

“Yes. Her name is Lily,” Harry said, trying for conversational. Perhaps they could talk about their children. Harry had become rather skilled at that form of small-talk.

“Of course it is.” Draco snickered, and he instantly seemed ten years younger. “I suppose she looks just like your mother.”

“I reckon she will look a lot like Mum as she grows up, yeah,” Harry said, wary of Draco’s seeming good nature.

“I don’t even want to delve into the Oedipal implications of your marriage,” Draco shuddered.

“Oh, christ,” Harry said, bringing his hand up to his forehead, trying to push the burgeoning headache back into his skull.

“The younger boy looks just like you,” Draco said, changing topics abruptly, reminding Harry that he was still drunk and handling himself ridiculously well, considering. The prat. Harry raised an eyebrow at this, crossing his arms across his front.

Draco cracked into a real smile, and Harry felt the breath lurch out of his chest. This could be the Draco of early-morning tickle fights.

“He’s a little young for me,” Draco assured.

Harry felt himself smile. “Well, he and Scorpius could always get married and have oodles of children.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be fucking ironic?” Draco heaved. “Mother, Father, I want to introduce you to Baby Potter.”

“God, Albus was so scared of being Sorted into Slytherin,” Harry said mindlessly.

Draco sat up at this. “What have you been telling him?”

“It wasn’t me. His older brother got all kinds of ideas. Probably from Ron.”

“Figures,” Draco spat.

“I’m not happy about it,” Harry confessed. “Do you think I want everyone playing into the ‘Slytherin is Evil’ stereotype? No, thanks. We don’t need to be encouraging children to play out the mistakes of the previous generation.”

“Merlin, Potter, that was downright _eloquent_ ,” Draco marvelled. “If a little cliché. Colour me stunned.”

“Well, there you have it,” Harry said. “Honestly, I hope Al was sorted into Slytherin. That would make everyone rethink the ridiculous assumption that a quarter of the student body is evil.”

“Potter,” Draco said, the hint of a warning in his voice. Harry noticed that Draco’s posture had become rigid.

Fuck, Harry recognised that look. Draco’s eyes were wide and seemed semi-unfocussed, his cheeks the slightest shade of pink. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and his teacup was rattling on its plate.

They looked at each other silently for a few tense moments, the air between them thick with an unspeakable longing and rage binding them together like a rope Harry thought he could reach out and tug to bring himself closer to Draco, to close the fifteen-year distance between them. Unbidden, the smell of Draco, sharp like latex gloves, asserted itself in Harry's memory. It was a good thing Draco reeked of whiskey, because Harry vividly remembered the feel of Draco’s light underarm hair against his nose, the tangy scent of him tantalising and near.

Oh, fuck, how Harry remembered Draco’s smell, would give anything to bury his face in the crease of Draco’s thigh again, to breathe in the sweaty bleach smell of Draco’s groin. He clenched his jaw and looked at the Black coat of arms on the wall behind Draco’s head.

Draco breathed audibly and leaned back into the sofa. “I think you’re overestimating your fame,” he said easily, as though they hadn’t just shared something wholly terrifying. “As though Harry Potter’s child being Sorted into Slytherin would suddenly reform the wizard world’s bigotry.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Draco,” Harry said, noting how Draco raised an eyebrow at the use of his given name. “Next to your father, you’re one of the most bigoted people alive.”

“Nonsense!” said Draco, sounding convincingly shocked that Harry would say such a thing. “I’ll have you know that Astoria and I have donated substantially to a pre-Hogwarts magical education programme for Muggleborns.”

“I read,” Harry said. “And I’m sure it has nothing to do with trying to clean up the Malfoy name.”

“Well, of course it has to do with that,” Draco said as though Harry were utterly stupid for thinking he’d been trying to imply anything else. “But I could have just donated to St Mungo’s like my father.”

“You’re still prejudiced against poor people."

“Oh, please.” Draco rolled his eyes. “I just hate Ronald Weasley.”

“You certainly seem to care what I think all of a sudden.”

“Hardly.”

“When Ginny and I married, you sent me a note saying, ‘At least she’s a Pureblood,’” Harry said, not because it was particularly relevant but because he had just remembered it.

Draco laughed, apparently having forgotten his prior witticism. “Yes, but that’s only because my father would never forgive me for letting my son marry a Half-Blood. Three quarters might do.”

Harry guffawed. “He’d never forgive you for letting your son marry a redhead.”

Draco looked confused. “Albus doesn’t have red hair.”

Harry felt like Draco had just hurled a bag of bricks at his chest.

“Honestly, I doubt Scorpius will be interested in girls. Perhaps he’ll surprise us, but my money’s on his being queerer than a cross-eyed newt.”

“That doesn’t bother you?” Harry asked.

“Of course not,” Draco said. “Be a bit hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know. It certainly wasn’t okay for you to be gay.”

“Yes, well, that was a different circumstance, now, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t see how,” Harry said, looking at a stain in the carpet in front of his right foot.

“I was gay for Harry-bloody-Potter. That makes it different.” Draco sounded so confident, as though the meaning of his words was obvious.

“Piss off.”

“You were famous. You wanted a family.”

“I—I—” Harry spluttered. “ _I_ wanted a family? You were the one who left me! You left me to further the bloody Malfoy name.”

“Yes, I left. Of course I left. You’d have stayed forever because your loyalty gets in the way of your sense.”

“God, you act like you know me. Like you’ve not been gone the past fifteen years.”

Draco set his teacup on the tray and stood, approaching Harry, stopping not four inches from his face. He smelled of whiskey and was still just slightly taller than Harry.

“I never wanted to leave you, you prat,” Draco spat. “Some things just come before romance.”

Harry thought it was wildly funny that Draco had just referred to their once-relationship as a _romance_. They were always at each other’s throats. They’d come to blows on four separate occasions and had cursed each other more times than Harry could recall. Draco had never stopped being a bigot, had never stopped harassing Harry’s friends, had never stopped sneering at Harry’s very presence. Draco had been relentlessly irritating, and Harry’d often found him intolerable. But he was not a bad person, had never been. Harry knew that not being a bad person did not equate to attraction, but for Draco, who he’d thought was decidedly evil for so much of his youth, that small fact was an endless fascination for Harry. How could someone behave so poorly, be so arrogant, and express such direly hateful sentiments, and still be loyal and protective and fearful and ultimately brave? Not brave enough to do what was right, or even brave enough to do what was wrong, but brave enough to stay whole and good in the face of evil, and brave enough to risk himself for the people he loved.

“What things?” Harry asked, because Draco had never given him a satisfactory answer.

“Career. Family. Honour.”

“There is nothing honourable about you. You keep saying _family_ as though we couldn’t have had a family.”

“Potter, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but two men cannot have children.”

“They can adopt,” Harry said, walking around Draco to sit on the abandoned sofa.

“No,” Draco said, turning to face Harry. “You needed to have your own children. I needed to have mine. You can’t tell me you’d have been happier without Lily or Albus or the other one.”

“James,” Harry said.

“James,” Draco echoed, and breathed an irate, _Of course it’s James_. “And my life would be nothing without Scorpius.”

Harry knew Draco was right. Knowing what he knew now, having held his children and watched them grow, he was grateful Draco had left him. But god, how he’d needed Draco. How he’d craved him, savoured him.

“I wouldn’t have loved our children any less,” Harry mumbled.

He glanced up at Draco, who looked utterly bereft. Draco approached Harry and kneeled in front of him, resting his pointy elbows on Harry’s knobby knees and wrapping his hands around Harry’s waist.

“Baby,” he whispered, looking up into Harry’s face, and Harry hadn’t been called that since the last time he and Draco had fucked.

The memory of Draco splayed out on his back in Harry’s bed, his lips like raw cherries, his thighs trembling under Harry’s hands, invaded Harry’s consciousness. Their bodies had been slick with sweat, Draco’s mouth so hot, so insistent, so wanting. Harry had pressed his nose into Draco’s damp hair, breathing hotly into his ear whilst bringing his hips up to meet Draco’s body again and again, an endless cycle of sensation he’d wanted to die in. Draco had made soft noises of approval, clutching Harry to him and whispering, “Fuck. Oh. Oh, baby. Oh, fuck.”

Draco had picked up the term from an American Muggle film they’d seen in the cinema their first year as a somewhat-couple. He and Draco had not indulged in pet names in their everyday lives; they hardly ever even used each other’s given names. There was no place in their relationship for niceties with them always bickering and storming off and not speaking for days or weeks because both of them were too stubborn. But Harry had loved Draco’s uninhibited sexual affection, the way he erupted with a sentiment whose source Harry could not touch.

And now here was Draco on his knees, calling him _baby_ , and there was nothing sexy about it. Draco’s eyes were pleading, but Harry did not know how to fix it. Things had not turned out the way he’d planned, the way they were supposed to. He thought back to the time he and Draco had read their tea leaves together and was filled with a regret he could not quantify.

“Baby,” Draco repeated, reaching for Harry’s hands and kissing them repeatedly. Harry’s own heartbeat thundered in his ears at being confronted with Draco’s lips on his body, and he felt eighteen again, filled with rage and passion and a tension he did not know where to channel.

Draco had changed since they were boys. He supposed that was to be expected, but the way Draco rubbed soothing circles into Harry’s wrists and pressed his head to Harry’s knee reminded him of Ginny comforting James after falling off his broomstick. She had given him room to be a “big boy,” but had not wavered in her attention or her small physical gestures of support. Harry supposed Draco had had similar interactions with Scorpius, and thinking of Draco as an adult, as a _father_ , and probably a rather good one, renewed a regret in Harry that wasn’t safe to feel.

What did it say about Harry that he wondered if he’d have been happier in some alternate universe? If he and Draco had stayed together for more than three rough, frustrating, ecstatic years, had aged together, moved through life together, had had a family together, would Harry have been happier? If he’d had children other than his own? No, he could not think that way. The shame of it clawed at his insides.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, and Harry was sure it was the first time he’d ever heard it, “for what you’ve felt over the years, and I’m sorry for what I’ve felt, too. I want you to know that I want nothing more right now than to kiss you.”

Harry was blushing wildly at Draco’s eye contact and unwavering tone.

“But this is something we gave up for the lives we’re living now. And playing What If is a fool’s errand, and we probably would have killed each other anyway. I’ve remembered you better than you were—”

“Oh, brilliant.”

“Shut up, you wanker. You did it do me, too. I was an idiot and a coward, but I couldn’t have been anything else. And I should not be here at all, but I needed to come. I had to get piss drunk to even find the courage to try the Floo.”

“Merlin, you are _not_ Draco Malfoy,” Harry mumbled, distinctly unsettled by Draco’s unemotional discussion of their current situation, his admission of weakness, and his utter lack of snark.

“I’ll be my sunny self again in a moment, I promise.” Draco sneered, and Harry found it a strangely welcome sight. “Right now I need you to understand that I am leaving here now and that I will not be coming back. That you are not to follow me.”

Harry had been expecting it, of course, had been expecting Draco to tell him to fuck off and storm out. But his throat seized up anyway, and not in small part because it wasn’t a fight pushing Draco away this time, but getting along.

“What was all that rubbish about you wanting to kiss me, then?”

“Utter truth,” Draco said, and Harry did not doubt the sincerity of his throaty proclamation. “But this is over, and I’m sorry I came.”

“Don’t be,” Harry said. “I’m glad you came, and I hope …. I hope our sons can be friends, even though we so plainly failed at it.”

Draco closed his eyes and kissed the tips of every one of Harry’s fingers before abruptly standing and approaching the fireplace. Without looking back, he pulled a small pouch of Floo powder out of his robes, threw it in the flames, stepped inside, and nearly shouted, “Malfoy Manor.” Without another sound, he was gone.

* * *

“Do you want to read the description of the nebula, or shall I?” Malfoy said, pulling Harry out of his vague fantasy of fighting off Dark Wizards in his new Auror uniform.

“All right, have at it,” Harry said.

Malfoy cleared his throat dramatically in a way that reminded Harry of Umbridge. He groaned aloud.

“The nebula is a symbol of indistinction. You will never know where you are going, and may not even know where you are. You will exist in vague uncertainty. Don’t feel too bad, though. You won’t even know you’re lost.”

Harry laughed and reached out to punch Malfoy in the leg. He missed, but it was the thought that counted.

“Har har,” he said. “What’s it actually say?”

“Believe it or not, Potter, I’ve just told you.”

He dropped the book onto Harry’s chest without warning, eliciting a hearty _oomph_.

“Oi, don’t let Hermione see you doing that,” Harry said. “She’d wallop you in the face again for endangering an innocent book.”

“Please, I’d like to see old Bush-Head try it,” Malfoy said. Then, thoughtfully, “Harry, hand me back that book!”

Harry hesitated and then lifted it towards Malfoy, who snatched it up.

“What’re you looking for?” Harry asked, watching Malfoy flip haphazardly through pages.

“I’ve just realised .... That squirrel wasn’t a squirrel at all.” He looked up at Harry. “It was Granger’s big, bushy head!”

Harry whacked Malfoy on the shin several times, snatching the book out of his hands and tossing it across the room.

“Ow!” Malfoy complained. “Now who’s hurting books?”

Harry sat up and leaned towards Malfoy, digging his fingers into his bony ribs.

“No, no!” Malfoy shrieked. “No, no, no! Not fair, Potter! You fight dirty.”

Within a minute, Malfoy had fallen to the floor, a wriggling mess of giggling wails and flailing limbs. Neither of them was particularly strong, but Harry was nowhere near as ticklish as Malfoy, which gave him the advantage.

They wrestled heartily for five minutes, and more feebly for a few after that, eventually resting in a breathless, heavy pile, damp from exertion.

“Mm,” Malfoy sighed, still emitting faint giggles every so often. “Potter, you’re on top of me.”

“So what?” Harry huffed, absently bringing a finger up to touch the scar trailing from beneath the left side of Malfoy’s mouth over to his ear.

“So do you know how incredibly gay that is?” Draco’s voice was all indignation, but his body remained prone and relaxed. Harry could feel Malfoy pulling at the left side belt loop on Harry’s Muggle jeans.

“Worried I’ll soil your reputation?”

“Of course, I am,” Malfoy said. “Do you have any idea how famous I am? I suspect Rita Skeeter is watching us with Omnioculars at this very moment.”

“Mm,” Harry grunted. “I think I’ve actually just found her in your hair.”

Malfoy tensed, then relaxed again. “Are you implying that I’m infested with vermin? Potter, you, of all people, should not throw stones. _I_ did not live in a cupboard with spiders.”

“Well, that’s true,” Harry said. “ _You_ had grimy house-elves touching all your things.”

“Granger would be appalled!”

Harry chuckled. “You’re awfully noble when it benefits you.”

“What’s the point in being noble if it doesn’t benefit me?”

Harry could not think of a good answer to that question and instead settled further into Malfoy. “Shove your bony knee over.”

“ _Bony?_ ” Malfoy said, a picture of indignation. “My knee is not _bony_. It is perfectly formed, the pinnacle of knee design, a mixture of function and aesthetics.”

“Yeah, whatever it is, just stop digging it into my leg.”

“Bony.” Malfoy scoffed as he dislodged his leg from under Harry’s and let it fall open on the other side, Harry settling himself between Malfoy’s perfectly formed knees.

Long moments passed, and Harry only realised that he’d been falling asleep when Malfoy’s sharp voice broke through the half-formed, nebulous images in his mind.

“You know, Potter, this really is becoming quite poncey. If I weren’t so endlessly trusting and virtuous, I’d think you were trying to tempt me into sexual sin.”

Harry smiled against Malfoy’s neck, lifted himself onto his elbows, and looked down into Malfoy’s face. He quirked an eyebrow and said, “And what if I am?”

He’d meant it as a joke. He’d honestly expected Malfoy to shove him off and be an utter girl about it, and then they’d wrestle and laugh and call each other names until one of them went too far, as always happened, and someone stomped out of the room with a storm of expletives.

But of all the things Malfoy could have done, short of sprouting rabbit ears and hopping about, sinking his hands into Harry’s hair and pulling his face down into a hard kiss was the last thing Harry could have expected. And yet ….

* * *

Oddly enough, all it had taken to get Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy on speaking terms was being alone in the same pub at the same time with the same shitty band playing.

Harry had been eighteen and just starting Auror training. Ron and Hermione were out doing whatever it was they did together, and Harry was looking for an evening out. He ended up in Knockturn Alley, not wanting to be approached by grateful admirers and perhaps just a little bit itching for a fight.

He looked over his shoulder down the dark alleyway as he pulled open the door to Shank’s Den. The smell of the place—vaguely like piss and dragon’s blood—hit him hard enough to make him consider just going to the Leaky after all, but he’d been spotted by at least three fidgety wizards and didn’t want to look like a coward.

The pub was small with a dingy bar on the far wall and seven or eight tables scattered about. On the left side of the room was a makeshift stage crammed up into a corner under a gaudy Bulgarian National Quidditch banner. There wasn’t a single witch in the place as far as Harry could tell, but there were about a dozen wizards, most of them huddled around the bar. The man behind the bar was ungodly tall, certainly pushing seven feet, and thin, with a head full of thick black hair. Harry supposed he’d be rather handsome without the slouch and grimace and dirty robes.

He shuffled into the dark pub and found himself becoming acclimated to the smell. He approached the bar and asked for a Butterbeer, which got him laughed at by at least six men with ridiculous facial hair.

“We don’t sell no kids' drinks here, Sire Potter. Maybe you ought to go to Fortescue’s and get yourself an ice cream cone.”

That resulted in guffaws all around, but Harry, though a little hot in the face, wasn’t particularly miffed.

“Habit,” he muttered before asking for a Firewhiskey. The man Harry had assumed was Shank, and who actually turned out to be Craig, slid a tall shot of whiskey across the bar to Harry with a mockingly polite grin.

“Would you like to pay now, or shall I start a tab?” Craig asked and, without letting Harry finish, added, “You didn’t think you’d get free drinks in this bar, did you?”

Harry put on the best smile he could manage and said, “Course not. Start a tab.”

He grabbed a barstool and dragged it over to his glass, sitting down across from Craig and looking up into his angry face before downing his shot.

“Another, please, but give me a glass this time,” Harry said. “At this rate it’ll take me all night.”

Harry was full of shit and he knew it, but they didn’t, and that was worth something. Craig gave him a tumbler full to the brim and asked, “How’s that?”

Harry glanced at the glass, and at Craig, and at the other blokes at the bar. He leaned over and sipped some whiskey off the top and, already feeling a bit calmer from his first drink, cracked a smile and said, “That should do it!”

The other patrons chuckled and seemed to relax a bit, returning to whatever conversations they’d been having before Harry arrived. Craig wiped down the counter with a towel that somehow looked even dirtier than the bar top. Harry sipped at his drink and smiled to himself, feeling utterly content with life.

Many minutes and a couple centimetres into Harry’s drink, the pub door opened again, and five utterly strange-looking women entered with instrument cases. Harry squinted at them to get a better look. They all appeared to be wearing something the colour and consistency of Muggle cling-film over black knickers and tube brassieres, their hair short, shock-white, and sticking out from their heads at all odd angles. The theme of their makeup seemed to be “black,” with their eyes and lips blackened, and even their cheeks made sooty with dark cosmetic.

“The ladies are here!” Craig announced, as though anyone could have missed their loud entrance. All the women seemed to have thick Scottish accents, and all of them swore heavily. Harry supposed this was part of their appeal.

The other gentlemen in the pub whooped and hollered, and Harry realised why no women were in the bar. This was an _event_. Sure enough, as the witches were setting up their equipment, drums and bells and something that looked like a great big paper clip sailing across the room onto the tiny stage, more men filed into the bar and took their seats at the tables in front of the stage.

Craig busied himself filling glasses and bringing them out to the healthy crowd that had gathered. He brought the shortest of the five women a shotglass filled with some viscous black fluid Harry didn’t recognise. She sucked the content out of the glass and threw it across the room, where it shattered against the wall. “Craiggy!” she squealed and raised her small arms into the air. Craig scooped her up and they were the perfect odd couple. Harry found himself chuckling at the sight of them, warmed by how happy they looked.

Harry kept his seat at the bar until the music started. The screeching vocals and arrhythmic drums and whatever that _noise_ was that that paper clip was making sent Harry to the back of the bar as though he’d just spotted the Snitch in the corner. As soon as he’d left his seat, one of the standing guests sat down in it. Harry became aware that the pub had filled enough to have at least a dozen men standing behind the tables, watching The Snaggletooths (even Harry grimaced at the grammar in that name) perform.

Carrying his glass, Harry made his way for the far corner behind the bar, imagining it would be the quietest place. There, obscured by darkness, was a table with a single occupant: one Draco Malfoy, dragging his fingers through the brown liquid in his glass.

Malfoy was sitting, slouched back in one chair with his feet propped up on another, the only unoccupied seat in the house. Harry stood there feeling conflicted and rather stupid until Malfoy looked up and put on his patented sneer. Harry decided that that was as good an invitation as any and, lighthearted and gregarious from the alcohol, approached.

“May I?” Harry asked, pulling the chair out from under Malfoy’s feet and sitting down next to him.

“Why ask at all when just taking seems to work?” Malfoy said. It was nowhere near as mean as he could have been, so Harry felt encouraged, sipping from his glass and setting it down next to Malfoy’s.

They sat ignoring each other until the din became unbearable. Harry leaned in towards Malfoy and shouted, “How are you at Silencing Charms?”

Malfoy pulled his fingers out of his glass, dragging them along the lip. Harry watched drops of liquor fall back into the glass before Malfoy pressed his fingers to a white cloth napkin in his lap, which had to have come from home. Harry found himself thinking it was rather adorable that Malfoy brought napkins from home to a dive like this, and was perfectly aware that this would be endlessly irritating to him if he weren’t already fairly drunk. But he was, so why not?

Malfoy straightened up. “I imagine I’m a fair load better than you are, Potter.” He pulled a wand Harry didn’t recognise out of his robes and cast a bloody effective Silencing Charm, the noise from the band and rowdy crowd instantaneously sliced into just a hint of buzzing.

“Merlin, that’s wonderful,” Harry said, taking off his glasses and setting them on the table for no particular reason.

Harry reached out to touch Malfoy’s wand as he was sliding it up his sleeve, apparently not feeling particularly trusting. Malfoy snatched his arm away from Harry.

“You gave your mum’s wand back,” Harry said.

“Yes, well. I got a new one.”

“You can have your old one back,” Harry offered. “I mean, it might not work as well anymore, but I don’t need it.”

“Oh, Harry Potter, your generosity knows no bounds! You’ll give me _my wand_ back because you don’t need it! Heavens, how can I ever repay you?”

“I’ll accept Galleons,” Harry said, taking a sip from his drink.

Malfoy leaned in towards him, settling a few inches from his face at eye level. Harry noticed a scar on his face that led from the crease under his lip up to his ear. He reached out to touch it.

Malfoy swatted his hand away. “Potter, are you drunk?”

“Absolutely,” Harry said. “How else could I find myself sharing a drink with you?”

Malfoy scoffed. “We are not sharing a drink. We are merely drinking at the same table. There is a difference, Potter, and if you ignore it I will kick you out.”

“What are you drinking?” Harry asked.

“Firewhiskey.”

Harry poured half the remaining contents of his tall glass into Malfoy’s much shorter one.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Giving you more,” Harry said. “You’re not drunk enough to be good company yet.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You are not funny.”

“Maybe not, but free whiskey, right?”

“Again with the charity!”

“Okay, okay,” Harry said. “I’ll stop offering you things if you let me borrow a napkin.”

Malfoy was halfway through plucking a spare out of his robes when Harry burst into laughter, dropping his head to the table. Malfoy deposited the napkin on Harry’s head, muttering, “Merlin, I hope you’ve passed out.”

Harry pulled the napkin off the top of his head and spread it out below his face. After a few moments, he sat up again.

“Just my luck,” Malfoy said, taking a sizeable gulp from his glass.

“You know, for a giant prat, you smell nice,” Harry said.

Malfoy turned very slightly pink, erupting with a dramatic, “Oh, spare me. An affectionate drunk. Bloody typical, Potter. Is everything about you from the Do-It-Yourself Hero kit, or have you incorporated some original charms somewhere?”

Harry stifled his laughter by taking a gulp of his Firewhiskey. It was totally inappropriate, but the only response he could think of was, _Yeah, I’ve got a heroically magnificent cock_ , which he found completely hilarious and just barely kept himself from vocalising. He felt very proud of himself for still retaining some semblance of a buffer.

Malfoy continued drinking at a rapid pace, and Harry watched him, finding the entire situation thoroughly entertaining. Malfoy wasn’t half bad, as far as total wankers go.

“Where’d that scar come from?” Harry asked, managing to reach out and touch it whilst Malfoy was distracted with wiping his hands on his napkin.

“You, idiot,” he said, whacking down Harry’s hand again.

“I’m an idiot?” Harry asked.

“No …. I mean, yes, but. Your stupid slice-open-boys-in-bathrooms spell.”

The anger and regret that flared in Harry were intensified by alcohol to the point of despair. He didn’t know what to do with it. He was bad at apologies and bad at feeling things in general.

“It looks nice,” Harry said, his rather inadequate attempt at an olive branch.

“Well, I’m glad you think so,” Malfoy said without a lick of sincerity.

“Listen,” Harry said. Not because he had anything to say, but because it seemed like a suitably dramatic introduction to something he’d surely think of any moment.

Malfoy took another deep drink, grimacing slightly as he swallowed. “My breath is bated, Potter.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “Okay. I …. Listen.”

“We’ve established that part.”

“Shit. Sorry.” Harry intended to apologise for being verbally irritating, but why should that apology be any easier than another one? “I’m sorry. For that spell. I didn’t know what it did. And I know it’s stupid to do a spell you don’t know, but you were trying to Crucio me!”

Malfoy sighed. “I don’t require an apology. I’m not the one who brought up the scar, if you haven’t noticed, though you should see me with my shirt off.” A beat later, Malfoy’s facial expression was utterly comical, as though a Doxy had crawled into his throat and started singing Mermish lullabies.

Harry pulled out his imaginary parchment of a hand and began writing on it with his invisible quill. “Draco Malfoy,” he dictated, “is a giant poof.”

Malfoy grabbed the wrist of his quill hand, wrenching it away as though stopping Harry’s imaginary note was a matter of Ministry security.

“I am not a poof!” Malfoy insisted. “I’m just trying to make you feel bad about eternally damaging my flesh!”

“Oh, okay,” Harry said. “Just wait ‘til you see me with my trousers off!”

Malfoy grabbed Harry’s face-kerchief and spread it out on his own patch of table before a dramatic head drop.

And it had been just that easy, a matter of circumstance with a hefty amount of alcohol. They had spent the rest of the night amiably at each other’s throats, consuming much more alcohol than either of them could handle gracefully.

As they staggered towards the Floo at closing time, Malfoy said, “You’re not altogether repulsive.”

Harry, feeling sloppily touched, pulled Malfoy in for a stiff hug and said, “Let’s do this again.”

“Next week?”

Harry threw his powder into the flames and said, “Save me a seat,” before stepping in and shouting, “Grimmauld Place.”

* * *

Harry stared into the fire, not quite believing that Draco had just been in his sitting room. He was distinctly put off, feeling as though he’d just been speaking with an impostor, someone who had known their relationship but could not quite embody it.

He wondered how Draco was feeling at that moment, if he, too, felt somehow robbed of what Harry had once been. It was ridiculous to expect Draco to be the same person he’d been fifteen years ago, but through the years, that was the only way Harry could remember him. The fact that Draco’s life had gone on at the same rate Harry’s had felt unfair to him, as though he should be able to scoop up a twenty-year-old Draco and pretend their lives had not happened.

Harry wished he had not seen to it that Lily and Kreacher would be away for the night. He could probably still catch the end of dinner at the Burrow, but he didn’t feel quite up to conversation. He just wanted to know that there was someone else in this house that held so many raw memories.

He caught sight of the half-full whiskey glass, picking it up and smelling the liquid inside, then taking off his glasses and setting them on the table next to Draco’s cold teacup. Harry turned the whiskey glass in his hands, watching the liquid swirl. Catching sight of the imprint Draco’s lips had left on the rim, Harry paused his motion. He stared at it, something so insignificant, something he’d washed clean of dozens of glasses before he’d known what a life without Draco’s presence really meant. Harry pressed his lips to the place where Draco’s had been and drank from Draco’s glass, feeling sentimental and lonely and utterly embarrassed about it. Next he’d be pressing his own fingers to his lips as though something of Draco’s kiss remained there. Harry drained the glass and set it down too hard on the end table. He felt ridiculous.

After putting his glasses back on, Harry walked to the kitchen to fix himself some toast. There was no use moping about something as completely expired as his and Draco’s relationship, which had been over for fifteen years. Harry had been managing just fine, content in his career and family. And then Draco had come and mucked everything up, had brought with him the promise of reunion and joy and peace, and had left nothing but a familiar despair and empty rage. Selfish git.

As he was standing over the sink eating a cheese sandwich, Harry heard a rapping from the window. Nelly, Albus’s owl, was sitting outside. He set his sandwich on the sideboard and lurched for the window, anxious to read about Albus’s first day at school. He carefully removed the letter from Nelly’s leg and pinched off a piece of his sandwich for her. She promptly flew off again, leaving Harry alone in the kitchen once more. He unfolded the parchment and sat down at the table to read.

_Dad,_

_I’m not telling Mum yet because I don’t think she’ll really understand. You can tell her if you want, but I don’t want to. I bet James has already written both of you anyway._

_I met a boy on the train named Scorpius, and I think he’s going to be my best friend. James was being mean to him and I told him to stop, and Scorpius asked if I wanted to find a different compartment to sit in, so I went with him. He’s really smart and funny and he said that you and his dad knew each other in school._

_Anyway, I was going to ask the Sorting Hat to sort me into Gryffindor. But then Scorpius went first (his last name is Malfoy by the way—do you know his dad?) and he was sorted into Slytherin. I don’t know. I guess what you said was right. If anyone as nice as Scorpius could be in Slytherin, then it can’t be that bad of a place, can it?_

_I know Uncle Ron is going to have a heart attack, but I asked the Hat to put me in Slytherin, and it did. The best part is that now I don’t have to be around James all the time! I know, I know. He’s my brother. But now I get to start Hogwarts without him bothering me all the time._

_Thanks for your advice, and I hope it’s really okay that I’m in Slytherin._

_Al_

_P.S. - Thanks for sending me that book. Rosie’s in Ravenclaw._

Harry carefully refolded the paper and put it into his pocket, his eyes brimming with tears of pride and gratitude. Somehow the gods had seen fit to heal the wounds of the previous generation, to place a Potter in Slytherin, and to make him friends with a Malfoy. They would fight, certainly, would have bouts of bitter animosity and taunts and perhaps even duels, but Harry was sure that the bond Albus and Scorpius had forged today would last them through school and perhaps into life beyond. By some miracle, Albus still had seven full years to figure that out, and Harry could not quantify how grateful he was for that. He went to the drawing room to grab a scrap of parchment and a quill, scrawling out a quick, excited message for his son.

_Albus,_

_I am so proud of you. You are so brave. I’m excited to hear all about life in the Slytherin dorms._

_Let me know if James gives you too much trouble. And I hope you’ll bring Scorpius by to visit over Christmas Hols._

_Love,_

_Dad_

He then pulled out the letter Albus had sent him and stared at it. He had, by his estimation, a very stupid idea. It would surely be taken as a pathetic, last-ditch effort at reconciliation, but this was important. And even if he was taken for a fool, he wouldn’t let his son’s brave candour go unnoticed. He wanted Draco to know that their sons had made the first steps towards the friendship Harry and Draco had failed. More than anything, he wanted Draco to be prepared to disregard his personal feelings and simply allow Albus and Scorpius to figure out their lives. He wanted Draco to see the sacrifice Albus had made and to know that he was not Harry, that their sons would not make the same mistakes.

Harry pointed his wand at the letter.

_“Geminio.”_

He placed the original in the top drawer of his desk where he kept his most precious possessions: the Marauder’s Map, the Invisibility Cloak, the mirror shard, the photo and letter his mother had sent to Sirius. He addressed the duplicate letter to _Draco Malfoy: Just so you know…_. 

Harry climbed the stairs to what had been Sirius’s room and was now the pet room. Assorted lizards and toads lazed in their cages, and Harry scratched Leopold the guinea pig’s head as he approached King, Harry’s own handsome courier owl.

“This one,” he said, attaching one letter to King’s left foot, “is for Albus at Hogwarts. And this,” he said, attaching the other letter, “is for Draco Malfoy at Malfoy Manor.”

Harry gave King a treat from the bowl under his cage and sent him off into the darkness. Maybe it was a bad idea to send Draco that letter, but Harry felt he had to know. That it somehow made up for the conversation they’d had this evening, that something serendipitous could still connect their lives.

Harry moved about the room, feeding the animals and taking them out of their cages to exercise. It was easy to forget about his loneliness as he sat watching his vine snakes climb their small trees, listening to their silly, effortless conversations. They had such simple lives, and they were endlessly cheerful.

After everything, Harry was happy to have inherited Parseltongue from Voldemort and grateful to have kept the ability even after the death of that bit of Voldemort’s soul that had existed within him. He was only regretful that it didn’t truly belong to him, that he was unable to pass it on to his children. In this, he was alone. He was alone in many things.

Feeling tired, Harry went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Brushing his teeth, he looked in the old, perpetually dusty mirror. He looked his age. His hair was still black, still thick, but his skin looked tired. He wasn’t old yet, wouldn’t be old for many more years, but he was working on it. He was ageing like so many hadn’t. Fred hadn’t aged. Nor had Colin. Nor had Crabbe.

Harry rinsed his face in cold water, trying to let go of the guilt that, years ago, he had decided wasn’t his to bear. He would stop ageing, too, someday, and that would be that. It didn’t scare him, and it didn’t particularly sadden him, either. His children would continue their lives without him, and he would no longer exist. Just ash, just smoke, just air.

Harry climbed into bed thinking about dying, deciding that it would be okay if he just didn’t wake up.

* * *

Harry dreamt of that lazy afternoon in Draco’s study when they were nineteen years old and reading tea leaves to pass the time. Only this time, when Harry looked into his teacup, he saw the little maple tree with the rope ladder. He looked up, and Draco kissed him.

They were in the tree then, their feet wrapped around the ropes, and Draco had too many arms. Draco was the tree, and Harry was sustained by Draco’s rough bark and caressed by his amber leaves. He closed his eyes and relaxed, listening to the whisper of wind through Draco’s appendages.

When he opened his eyes again, he was back on the floor of Draco’s study, the teapot overturned and his elbow in the cooling puddle on the carpet. Draco’s hand was on Harry’s groin, and Harry pulled Draco’s head towards him, burying his face in his neck and smelling him.

“This isn’t how it happens,” Draco said warningly.

“I don’t care,” Harry said. “Nothing happens the way it should.”

Then Draco licked Harry’s scar and whispered, “You don’t even know you’re lost.”

* * *

Harry awoke to what felt like someone sitting on his bed. His mind went through the customary panicked haze of being awoken unexpectedly. He reached for his wand and at the same moment heard someone whisper, “Shhh.”

“Ginny?” he asked, because she was the last person he’d shared a bed with, and because only she could possibly be here shushing him as though he’d started screaming in his sleep again.

“Not quite,” came Draco’s voice and, along with it, the heat of his body spreading along Harry’s as Draco lay down beside him.

“What—?” Harry started, still too groggy to fully form a sentence. In his tired haze, he simply accepted that Draco was in his bed, leaving the shock and anxiety for when he was a bit more coherent.

“I got your letter,” Draco said simply, as though that explained his presence in Harry’s _bed_ , of all places.

“So?”

“So,” Draco said, drawing out the syllable, “I’m not going to let our sons put us to shame. I’m much too proud to allow Scorpius to illustrate my failures.”

“You said you were never coming back,” Harry said, immediately feeling childish.

“I did, didn’t I?” Draco said. “Would you rather I go or be a liar?”

Harry smiled and reached for Draco’s wrist, pulling it and Draco over him. “You’ve always been a liar,” he rasped. “It’s a hopeless case. Why reform now?”

Draco climbed fully on top of Harry, straddling his hips and resting his elbows on either side of Harry’s head. He brought his mouth to Harry’s right ear and said, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Harry felt adrenaline shoot through his chest, making it burn and swell with an intense combination of excitement, guilt, and terror. He pushed thoughts of family responsibility, public image, and Draco’s _wife_ out of his head as he raised his trembling fingers to Draco’s face.

His skin was not smooth the way Harry remembered it. The stubble on his chin made Harry very aware that Draco was not his ex-wife, was not soft or easy or accommodating. This was a man, and this was Draco, and Harry could not stifle the whimper that escaped him at this final confirmation that Draco had not merely been a phase. Draco was back, in his arms, in his bed, and they were going to fuck, and Harry felt his cock give a hearty lurch at this idea.

Draco pressed his mouth to Harry’s without a moment’s hesitation, without pausing for confirmation that Harry _wanted_ this, because Draco knew. Harry pulled at Draco’s mouth, sucking on his lips and his tongue and shoving his hands underneath Draco’s loose shirt.

It had been years since they’d done this. Fifteen long, beautiful, gruelling years of fatherhood and husbandhood and career and friendship and endless aching. Fifteen years of screaming children and close calls and arguments and distance.

Draco, similarly in awe of how much time had passed, pulled away from Harry and, removing his own shirt, quipped, “Think you still remember how to do this?”

Harry grinned at him, sliding his fingers into once-soft blond hair and all but devouring Draco’s mouth. How could he ever forget?

Draco was different now. He had grown chest hair and triceps, and his old Sectumsempra scars had dulled and calmed, hardly even noticeable anymore. He was older and perhaps a bit more frail, but the intensity of his need seemed to have at least tripled. Draco wrapped his hands around Harry’s shoulders and squeezed, pressed his thighs in tighter around Harry’s hips, bit at Harry’s lips, and Harry knew what Draco was feeling, because he felt it, too.

Harry opened his mouth wider, sucked harder, pushed into Draco’s mouth without any attempts at finesse. He could not think with heat radiating out from his chest, making his fingers numb, his hands shaking in Draco’s rough hair. The kiss was sloppy and clumsy, just the way they’d always been. He was so consumed by having his mouth on Draco’s again that he couldn’t think of more. He could only press on in this moment, pull Draco more tightly against him, suck harder, groan more deeply, do anything to keep Draco from remembering that they didn’t do this anymore.

God, how he’d wanted this. Wanted it for years, wanted it this intensely since the last time he and Draco had fucked. Harry felt exhilarated and overwhelmingly sad, had only ever felt this way. Draco was a merciless gift, a beautiful curse, the only thing in his life that ever made him want to live forever. Draco’s trembling hand beneath Harry’s shirt felt just like dying. His mouth tasted of pure mortal ache and longing for eternity. Harry would never be satisfied, would never feel he’d gotten his fill of Draco Malfoy.

Harry knew he was crying and couldn’t give fuck-all, because he never thought he’d feel this again. He never honestly thought that at thirty-seven years old he would be desperate to feel Draco even closer, to feel his own skin tear under Draco’s teeth and nails and have Draco crawl inside. Harry’s throat felt impossibly tight, his breathing taking form in choking sobs of ecstasy and terror.

When they detached their lips and Harry took the right side of Draco’s neck into his mouth, Draco sunk his fingers into Harry’s hair and nearly sobbed, muttering the word _fuck_ over and over again, coupled with _my baby_ , and Harry’s chest swelled with gratitude that some things did not change.

Draco sat up to pull off Harry’s shirt and paused to run his hands up and down Harry’s chest. He leaned down and kissed Harry’s scar, something that Ginny had never done, and something that Harry had always missed. Draco had never been afraid to ask for what he wanted: to demand Harry speak Parseltongue or to lower his arse over Harry’s face, to make Harry kiss his Dark Mark or lick each of his long Sectumsempra scars. Draco had always had an obsession with physical imperfection, with finding pleasure in flaws.

As Draco kissed down Harry’s chest and abdomen, licking along muscles Harry hadn’t had fifteen years ago, Harry turned on the bedside lamp. Draco looked up with a smirk, and Harry had forgotten how perfect Draco looked stalking down towards Harry’s cock, claiming it like a wildcat—all pomp and confidence and vigour.

“Want to see you,” Harry said, grabbing Draco’s left arm and facing its underside to the light. Draco’s Dark Mark was almost silly to Harry now, after everything. He had been so young when he defeated Voldemort, so lucky, and it was all such a ridiculous story to him, a legend about some other boy named Harry Potter.

Harry pressed his hand over the Mark and held it there as he took Draco’s fingers into his mouth, pushing his tongue between the index and middle fingers. It was something—not quite Draco’s cock or his arse, but it was intimate, and Harry needed it. Draco’s nose ran the length of Harry’s cock, and Harry bit down on Draco’s fingers, groaning with anticipation.

“Harry,” Draco said. “Look at me.”

At those words, Harry saw Snape’s pallid face in his mind, felt Snape’s hands on the front of his robes. As he re-experienced the desperation and tragedy in Snape’s final attempt to feel close to Harry’s mother, Harry looked at Draco and swore to himself that he would not let either of them become Snape, that he would hold on to Draco this time and never let their children become substitutes for what they shared.

Harry watched as Draco pulled down Harry’s sleep pants, lifting his hips, cock springing free, so close to Draco’s beautiful mouth. He watched as Draco licked up from the base, seeing more than feeling his pink tongue. Draco kissed up and down its length, stopping to lick and suck at the engorged flesh. He tongued at Harry’s foreskin and pulled it between his lips, sucking gently.

Harry felt weightless and joyful as he watched the way Draco relished his cock. His own skin felt impossibly hot, as though he might die of this feverish need. Draco enveloped Harry’s prick with his mouth, and Harry felt blood coursing through his cock, wrapped in the wet heat of Draco. He watched Draco’s mouth, his flexing back, his trouser-clad hips. “So fucking sexy,” he said, and Draco smiled. “Take off your trousers.”

Draco pulled off of Harry’s prick and stood to remove his trousers, Harry palming his own cock in Draco’s absence.

Draco looked like sex incarnate in his tight black briefs, his erection straining to be freed. Harry sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulling Draco between them. He ran his hands up the backs of Draco’s thighs, squeezing and slapping his arse in some bizarre rhythm that mesmerised him. Hands still firmly planted on Draco’s arse, Harry brought his face down to press his nose to Draco’s cock. The smell hit him in the back of the throat, a scent that was familiar and stirring and _Draco_.

He slid Draco’s briefs down over his arse, dropping them to the floor, where Draco kicked them aside. Harry pushed Draco’s cock to the side, holding it up and out of his way as he placed his other hand on the small of Draco’s back, using it to pull Draco’s groin to his face. Harry pressed his nose to the crease of Draco’s hip and licked along the line between his smooth thigh and his short pubic hair.

This was heaven; Harry was certain of it. He left sloppy wet trails over Draco’s skin, moving his prick to the other side so Harry could explore the other crease. He pulled his nose up along Draco’s erection, marvelling at the texture and heat of it. He had forgotten how much he loved cock.

Harry lapped at Draco’s foreskin, knowing that if he took all of Draco into his mouth, he would not stop until Draco’s hands fisted in his hair and he coated Harry’s throat with his release. It had been too long, and Harry decided that there would be plenty of time for blow jobs later. Right now, he needed more.

Harry scooted back on the bed, letting his legs fall apart. He looked up at Draco.

Draco—naked and panting with blotchy, saliva-streaked skin—was standing at the side of Harry’s bed looking down at him as if he were a fresh Shepherd’s Pie during a famine. The odd food metaphor stuck in Harry’s head, and he couldn’t help laughing.

Draco smirked and climbed onto the bed between Harry’s legs.

“What,” he insisted, “are you laughing about?”

Harry shook his head.

Draco took his own cock in hand and pressed it against Harry’s, rubbing it back and forth along his length. Harry groaned in response, and Draco said, “I’m waiting.”

“Nothing,” Harry sighed. “I’m just happy.”

“I take it,” Draco growled into Harry’s ear, “that you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, please.” Harry felt silly and jubilant in the midst of his arousal.

Draco chuckled and sat up to reach for the bedside table. Harry marvelled at the tantalising stretch of Draco’s body as he swiped a tube of lubricant from the drawer.

“Since you’ve asked so nicely ….”

Draco squeezed a generous amount of lubricant onto his fingers and lowered them to Harry’s arse.

“In a hurry?” Harry teased.

Draco rubbed circles around Harry’s hole, and the anticipation was almost palpable.

“I’ve waited fifteen years,” Draco said. “I think that’s plenty long enough.”

“Agreed,” Harry said, pushing his arse onto Draco’s hand. Draco obliged, slipping in one finger, then two, stretching Harry for him, and there was nothing like this feeling. Harry pulled Draco closer, holding their cocks together. Not stroking them—just holding.

Harry could have stayed there on his back looking up at Draco forever. Could have massaged the muscles in Draco’s upper arm, which strained at supporting his weight. Could have squeezed their cocks together while Draco’s fingers moved in him. Could have watched Draco’s face and touched his hair and run his index finger back and forth along the scar leading from his chin to his ear. Harry _loved_ him, and had never needed to say it, would never say it. How could any words add to this experience, this coming together of two beings, this temporary merging?

Draco withdrew his fingers from Harry, and Harry let go of their cocks. Draco sat back and pulled Harry’s legs over his thighs, pressing the tip of his cock to Harry’s arse. Harry looked up at Draco’s face and watched the strained pleasure as he slid into Harry.

Harry closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the bed, wanting to just _feel_ this. He felt the slow burn of Draco pushing into him, stretching and filling Harry, and it was perfect. Draco pulled partway out and pushed back in slowly, breathing heavily, hands cleaving to Harry’s thighs. Harry opened his eyes, and Draco looked incurably lost. Harry reached out and pressed his fingertips to Draco’s abdomen. Draco looked down at him and smiled.

“Hey,” Harry whispered. “Come here.”

Draco leaned down and settled firmly between Harry’s legs, pressing his face into Harry’s neck and thrusting into him. Harry wrapped his arms around Draco’s back and met his thrusts, savouring Draco’s hot, wet breath against his skin and the tightly coiled sexual sensation humming throughout his body, driving him to lick across Draco’s shoulder, nibble at his ear, and massage his arse.

Harry felt like his whole body was throbbing, and Draco’s groaning made him want to come _now_.

“On your back,” Harry said, and Draco grabbed Harry’s thigh and pulled Harry with him as he flopped over. Harry sat up, pressing his palms against Draco’s chest, watching his tense face.

Harry rose and fell, angling himself just _so_ , brushing Draco’s cock past his prostate on every downstroke.

“Touch me,” Harry groaned. “I want to come for you.”

Draco’s entire demeanour changed. He grabbed Harry’s cock in his right hand and leaned up onto his left elbow. He looked up into Harry’s face, stroking fiercely.

“Come on, baby,” Draco said. “You like that cock?”

“Yes,” Harry panted. “Fuck, yes.”

“You love that fucking cock. You love the way I feel in that tight little arse.” Draco’s eyes were narrowed, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. He was loving this.

“Keep talking,” Harry said. “Fuck, keep talking.”

“You’re going to come for me,” Draco said. “You’re going to shoot all over me, cover me with your come, and that tight arse will clench around my cock. Fuck, you’re going to come for me, and then I’m going to roll you over and fuck you until I fill you up with my come.”

Harry felt overheated and full of sexual energy that was going to overflow at any moment. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, and Draco kept spitting filthy sentiment up at him, his face totally enraptured.

“Come on, baby,” Draco insisted. “Fucking come for me. I want you to cover me. Now, please, fucking come for me now.”

That was it for Harry. Draco’s wonderful, filthy mouth, Draco _begging_ for Harry’s come, pushed Harry past that precipice into orgasm. There was nothing like this: coming with Draco’s cock in his arse. He felt simultaneously full and depleted as he emptied himself all over Draco’s torso, Draco groaning in appreciation.

Harry sat for a moment recovering, and Draco let him as both their hands trailed through the puddles of semen on Draco’s abdomen. They stroked each other’s fingers, and Harry leaned down to kiss Draco. He kissed from his mouth down to his ear and whispered, “Your turn.”

Draco grunted and rolled them over, wrapping his arms under Harry’s shoulders and driving up and into Harry’s arse.

Harry gasped at the sensation, urging Draco along as he fucked him into the mattress.

“Yes, fuck me,” Harry snarled. “Fuck me, come for me, fill me up.”

“Gonna fucking fill you with my come, baby,” Draco said, thrusting erratically.

“Yeah, yes, come on,” Harry urged. “Fill that hot little arse.”

“You ready for it? Are you ready for my come?”

Harry felt hot and desperate, needing Draco to come, urgently needing that sense of merging.

“Yes, Draco, come for me.”

Draco thrust in hard and whispered a throaty “fuck” as he came, cock pulsing and thrusting in and out softly.

After a moment, Draco stilled, and Harry pulled his entire weight down upon him, wanting to feel the suffocating nearness of this breathless, sweaty, beautiful man. They breathed heavily, stroking each other’s damp hair and kissing shoulders and chins and temples. Draco shifted, pulling his cock wetly from Harry and settling into the crook of his arm, nuzzling his armpit and nibbling at the skin there.

They were quiet for several moments, sliding their hands across each other’s bodies and tightening their arms around each other at odd intervals as though remembering how long they’d gone without this and willing that distance to disintegrate.

Draco kissed Harry’s scar and rolled off of him, leaving Harry free to visit the loo and clean himself up.

Harry ran into Draco in the hallway on his way back to the bedroom, spanking his bare arse as he passed. Back in the damp bed, he closed his eyes and relived the encounter, the feel of Draco’s stubble against his neck, and the sound of his voice as he demanded an orgasm from Harry.

Draco returned to the bedroom and slid into the bed next to Harry, draping his arm across Harry and sighing contentedly into his ear.

“So you’re staying, then?” Harry asked.

“Of course, you idiot,” Draco said, and yes, he was still Draco, and Harry found endless comfort in that.

“What about your wife?”

“She has been apprised of the situation,” Draco drawled, as though discussing an internal business briefing.

Harry scoffed. “What does that even mean?”

“That means I’m giving her the Manor and total control over divorce publicity.”

Harry grinned and shook his head. “Your divorce would be a bloody power struggle.”

“Hardly.” Draco sniffed. “I offered exactly what I was willing to give up, and Astoria was happy to take it. I’m not sure if you know this, Potter, but a gay man doesn’t make the most attentive husband.”

“So that’s it, then, is it?” Harry asked, sitting up. “Earlier tonight you were planning on going to your grave in that marriage, and now …. Now you’ve just given it up? Given up your ancestral home, for Merlin’s sake?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Draco spat. “I’m not explaining this to you. You are either happy to have me or you kick me out on my arse. Those are your choices.”

“Fine,” Harry said. “That’s fine. Get out, then.”

Draco pulled Harry back down onto the bed and wrapped his arm around him. “No. I lied. That’s not an option. You’re stuck with me.”

Harry pulled Draco’s head down onto his chest. “After all your backtracking today, I’ll never trust another word you say.”

“Probably for the best,” Draco said. “And anyway, this is my ancestral home. And it’s in shambles. Shame on you, Potter.”

“Oh, no, please,” Harry said. “Please save the redecoration talk for the morning.

Draco sighed heavily. “Very well. But just know that I actually have a blood claim to this estate. Unlike you, Half-Blood.” Harry glared down at Draco, who smiled innocently up at him. Harry tugged on a lock of his hair and let it go.

They lay in silence for quite some time, Harry reflecting on the day’s events. He hoped that someday Draco would explain what had changed his mind, but decided that it wasn’t really important. Draco was here, and that was all that mattered. He looked down at Draco’s face, relaxed and peaceful, his hand closed against Harry’s slow-beating heart.

Harry remembered their children and wives and separate lives, remembered the day Draco had left him, and was filled with dread. How could they ever piece everything together? How could they make a coherent life out of all these scraps?

Draco’s splayed fingers on Harry’s chest felt too far away. Harry envisioned Draco’s whole arm within him, his hand cradling Harry’s heart, and he wondered if that would be close enough. He could not label the despair he felt at knowing that there would always be distance between them, that they could never merge enough to become one whole, to become the same person, to have that sense of profound _knowing_.

Harry became acutely aware that he did not want to die and, more importantly, that he did not want Draco to die. He pulled Draco bodily onto him, squeezing him tightly to himself, willing their bodies into merging so that maybe this stinging, full feeling in his chest might lessen.

Draco growled into Harry’s ear. “Are you feeling possessive?”

“Yes,” Harry said simply.

“Good,” Draco murmured. “If you let me run away again, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay,” Draco said. “But just this once.”

Harry drifted into an easy half-sleep. He was dreaming of tea leaves when Draco rolled off of him and climbed under the blankets.

“I’m not lost anymore,” Harry murmured.

“What?”

“Let’s plant a maple tree.”

Harry just barely perceived Draco’s soft kiss to his temple and a whispered, “Whatever you say,” before falling asleep again.

**Author's Note:**

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